


¡Ay mi amor, ay mi amor!

by cumulativeChaos



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Alcohol, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Getting Together, hector and imelda get drunk but nothing saucy happens, they just sing and talk about their feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:33:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26155042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cumulativeChaos/pseuds/cumulativeChaos
Summary: Inspiration can come from anywhere. For Hector, it comes from a beautiful girl, an old guitar, and a shitty bottle of tequila.
Relationships: Héctor Rivera/Imelda Rivera
Comments: 9
Kudos: 22





	¡Ay mi amor, ay mi amor!

**Author's Note:**

> legit wrote this years ago and just.... never got around to posting it. but i was rereading it and thought "hey wait, this is kinda good" so here we are
> 
> jesus christ this was supposed to be like 2k words

A brief list of scenes that the residents of Santa Cecilia are all too familiar with:

  * A gold-toothed, gangly-limbed musician skipping through town, plucking the chords to a romantic ballad on his guitar, following after a dark-haired girl with a glare that could kill a man.
  * Said dark-haired girl pulling off her shoe and pointing it menacingly towards the gangly-limbed musician (it’s worth noting that the girl never actually _hits_ the musician with her shoe, and it’s also worth noting that there have been other suitors who had not been spared).
  * The gangly-limbed musician wandering the streets alone on nights when his broader, more dashing friend charms yet another young girl with his smooth voice and even smoother wink (only the gangly-limbed musician knows how many hours his friend has spent in front of the mirror, working to perfect that wink).
  * The dark-haired girl wandering the streets alone on nights when the neighbors can hear her father roaring through the thin walls of their house. On these nights, the townspeople might offer her a sympathetic glance, maybe a piece of food if they have anything to spare, but most don’t. Most are in the same boat she is: poor, hungry, and barely scraping by. (Most, however, don’t carefully hide bruises under long dresses and carefully-wrapped scarves. The dark-haired girl knows there’s nothing anyone can do, so she’d rather avoid prying questions altogether instead of trying to come up with convincing lies.)



Now imagine, if you will, a day just like any other: the broad-shoulder musician plays for coins in Mariachi Plaza while his gangly-limbed friend follows the dark-haired girl through the narrow streets of Santa Cecilia. Imagine the girl pulling off her shoe in one smooth, practiced movement, and imagine the way her eyes burn as she tells the gangly-limbed boy to _“¡Quitate,_ Hector!” Imagine Hector, the gangly-limbed musician, pulling off his hat for a quick bow before turning and sprinting the other direction. Imagine his face splitting into a grin as he listens to the girl yell obscenities after him.

Imagine that the normal day continues. People talk and gossip, work and laugh and exchange goods, and the sun slowly inches across the sky. Hector joins his broad-shouldered friend—Ernesto is his name—in the plaza, and he doesn’t even notice the way Ernesto rolls his eyes at Hector’s lovestruck smile. They play all day, songs everyone knows and songs that Hector himself wrote. Oddly enough, it seems like the ones Hector wrote are more popular—nobody knows the words, but they clap to the beat and cheer through their applause.

When the sun sets and the crowd thins, Ernesto slings his guitar over his shoulder and claps his friend on the back.

 _“¡Gracias, mi familia!”_ he calls to the small crowd that remains. “We hope you enjoyed the show!”

There’s a small round of applause, a handful of hearty _gritos_ and high-pitched whistles. Hector clears his throat and elbows Ernesto in the side. Ernesto may be stronger, but Hector’s bony elbow digs in sharply, and even Ernesto’s carefully practiced grin can’t help but falter as he winces in pain.

“And let’s hear it for my friend Hector, the genius songwriter!” Ernesto quickly adds. Hector smiles as a couple more people cheer for him, but by now point the crowd has all but disappeared. It’s late, and almost everyone has gone home.

“So? How much for today?” Hector turns to the open guitar case at their feet. There’s a sizable pile of money today, which is encouraging. If they go cheap for dinner, they might have enough left over to buy something special.

Ernesto doesn’t answer. Instead, he removes his hand from his friend’s back and slaps the back of his head.

 _“Ow!”_ Hector winces. “What was that for?”

“That was for being a thousand miles away today, _chamaco_ ,” Ernesto says. He sets his guitar down and begins counting the money. “You’re not giving a good performance if you’re distracted.”

“Stop calling me _chamaco_ ,” Hector grumbles. “You’re only four years older than me.”

“And yet you’re still acting like a lovesick schoolboy.” Ernesto turns back to his friend, pointedly raising an infuriatingly perfect eyebrow. “For the last time, Hector, it’s a lost cause. Many men have tried, but if a woman’s nineteen and still unwed, it’s safe to assume she’s not going to break for the likes of _you.”_

“And what’s _that_ supposed to mean?” Hector’s eyes narrow.

“Hey, I mean no offense!” Ernesto holds his hands up. “I’m just saying, Imelda’s a tough nut to crack, and it’ll probably take a pair of arms stronger than your skinny twigs to do the job, _chalaco_.” He nods to Hector’s “skinny twigs” with a grin.

Hector yanks his arm away with a glare. _“Cabrón,”_ he mutters.

_“¿Que?”_

“Nothing!” Hector smiles innocently as Ernesto glares at him. After a moment, Ernesto rolls his eyes and turns back to the case of money.

Hector sighs and leans against the railing of the gazebo. “But Ernesto, I’m telling you, there’s something _there_. The way she sings…”

“Hey, no, stop that.” Ernesto snaps his fingers in front of Hector’s dreamy expression. “No daydreaming, you did enough of that while we were playing.”

“Oh, _Ernesto_ ,” Hector sighs. “Did you know she never actually hits me with her shoe? Not even when I catch her singing! That _has_ to mean something.”

“Perhaps she finds you too pathetic to hit?” Ernesto suggests.

“Or perhaps she doesn’t want to mess up a face _tan guapo_.” Hector leans over towards his friend and imitates Ernesto’s typical smarmy grin, wiggling his eyebrows and winking.

“Good point, _amigo_. I don’t know if your face could handle another injury.” Ernesto quickly taps a finger against Hector’s gold tooth.

“Hey!” Hector pulls away, covering his mouth with his hand. “I’ll have you know my tooth gives me _character_.”

Ernesto snorts. “Character, sure. You know I always say it takes ten shots of tequila to make you a handsome man.”

“And it takes twenty for you!” Hector fires back, the insult warm and familiar on his tongue. He kneels next to his friend with a grin, slinging his arm around Ernesto’s broad shoulders.

“Speaking of tequila…” Ernesto places the last of the money into a neat stack, lips twitching with the effort of containing a grin. “Looks like we have enough for one shitty bottle.”

 _“¡No me digas!”_ Hector hits Ernesto’s arm with a weak punch, beaming. “Alright, now we’re talking!”

“Come on, _chamaco_.” Ernesto scoops the money into his pocket and places his guitar in the now-empty case. “Let’s drop off our guitars at home and we can–”

“U-um, _¿perdon?”_

Both boys startle at the gentle voice. At the foot of the gazebo, blinking at them from under a thick set of lashes, stands a girl Hector recognizes as Gloria Garza, daughter of Santa Cecilia’s best baker. She’s only a year younger than Hector, and she’s known for being flirtatious and hard to pin down. Hector’s always liked her—she always makes sure to toss a coin or two into their guitar case when she passes by—but one look at the way she bites her lip and Hector groans internally. He knows what she’s here for, and it’s going to derail Hector’s grand plan of drinking the night away with his best friend.

 _“Hola,_ Ernesto,” Gloria says, twirling a lock of brown hair around her finger. “Your performance today was… _incredible_.”

Hector rolls his eyes and reaches for his guitar case. From this point on, he knows he’s irrelevant.

Ernesto smiles his blinding, smarmy smile. “Gracias, _señorita_ … uh…”

“Gloria,” Hector whispers.

“Gloria!” Ernesto puts his hand behind his back and gives Hector a thumbs up. Hector just rolls his eyes again. “Are you a fan of music, then?”

“Honestly? Not really,” Gloria admits. “Just _your_ music.”

It’s a risky move, throwing dirt on Ernesto’s greatest passion while simultaneously stroking his ego. Still, Hector’s not surprised that it works.

“Well, I am honored,” Ernesto says, chest swelling with pride, and Hector glares at his friend’s back. “Music—it’s not just in me, it _is_ me. I have to sing. I _have_ to play. What you hear me perform, it isn’t just my passion, it is my entire _life_.”

Hector snaps his guitar case shut and clears his throat, as loud and as un-subtle as he can manage. Ernesto turns around with a concerned look on his face.

 _“¿Estás bien, amigo?”_ Ernesto asks.

Hector raises his eyebrows and stares pointedly into his friend’s eyes.

“Ah!” Ernesto mouths a quick _perdóname_ before turning back to Gloria. “But you know, my best performances come from the songs my friend Hector writes.”

 _“Si, ya lo se,”_ Gloria says, waving her hand dismissively. “But you, the way you _sing_ and _play_ , it’s–”

“Hey.” Hector stands up and places his hand on Ernesto’s shoulder. He knows it’s a long shot, but maybe, just maybe, he can get his friend to forgo the meaningless one-night-stand, just this once. “Are we splitting a bottle of tequila or no?”

Ernesto glances back to Gloria, at her smooth hair and fluttering eyes, and Hector knows it’s a lost cause. “Maybe some other time,” Ernesto says. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a handful of their money, handing it to Hector with a grin. _“Vale,_ why don’t you drop our guitars at home and go get that tequila? You can have the whole thing to yourself.”

Ernesto finishes his sentence with a wink before turning back to Gloria, not giving Hector a chance to respond. Hector glowers as his friend offers an arm to Gloria. Giggling, the girl loops her arm through his and the pair sets off through town.

* * *

So, after Hector awkwardly lugs two guitars back to the one-room shack Hector and Ernesto call home, Santa Cecilia is greeted by a familiar sight: a gangly-limbed musician wandering the streets alone on a night when his broader, more dashing friend has charmed yet another young girl with his smooth voice and even smoother wink.

“Some _amigo_ ,” Hector says, taking a swig from the bottle of shitty tequila. Maybe it’s the loneliness, but Hector swears the tequila tastes _especially_ shitty tonight.

“Oh, _Ernesto_ ,” Hector sighs in a mocking falsetto, leaning against the nearest wall. _“¡Eres tan guapo! ¿Como conseguistes las cejas tan delgadas?_ Bah!” Hector takes another swig, grimacing at the taste. “Who needs him? I can make music all on my own! _He’s_ the one who needs _my_ help.”

As if to prove his point, Hector places the bottle on the ground and shifts his guitar in his grip. He’d dropped Ernesto’s guitar off at home, but if he’s going to wander the streets, drunk and alone, then by God he’s going to do it with music.

He strums a chord and winces as the notes jar together. _“Ay, bonita_ ,” he says to the guitar, plucking gently and tuning the offensive strings. “You are well past your prime. I really need to start saving up for an upgrade.”

The guitar, as if on cue, lets out an ominous _CRACK_. Hector freezes, heart pounding and palms sweating, but the guitar looks the same as it always has: old, chipped, and on the verge of falling apart.

“I’m sorry, _cariña,”_ Hector croons, gently sliding his fingers across the strings. “But you know it’s true.”

Satisfied with the tuning, Hector strums a chord again. This time, it rings out clear and strong, and Hector smiles. He positions his fingers over the strings, takes a deep breath, and—

“HECTOR!”

He cuts off his _grito_ with a choked noise of surprise. Leaning out of the window above him is a familiar face. The face glares at him through a small pair of glasses, and the body attached to the face has its hands on its hips.

“ _Hola,_ Ceci!” Hector calls, grinning sheepishly. “A nice night, isn’t it?”

“Don’t even _think_ about playing that thing at this hour!” Ceci, the town’s seamstress, snaps. “How are people supposed to get any sleep with you out here making a racket on the streets?”

Hector wants to point out that her screaming probably isn’t helping anyone get any sleep, either, but he knows what happens when he talks back to Ceci. Instead of provoking that beast, he gives Ceci a two-fingered salute, grabs his tequila and guitar, and scrambles off into the night.

Only a few streets away, a familiar figure in the town of Santa Cecilia walks the narrow streets, chin high and eyes blinking furiously to hold back tears. Imelda knew it was going to be a rough night when her father had slammed the door on his way into the house, and she’d made sure to get Oscar and Felipe settled down in the neighbor’s house before scurrying off into the night. Still, she hadn’t managed to completely escape her father’s wrath: across her cheek, a red mark is slowly fading into something darker.

Imelda isn’t thinking about where she’s going, which means she ends up in Mariachi Plaza. It seems like her feet always want to take her there, even at night when there’s nothing there to see. The plaza feels naked without the jarring mix of too many songs being played at the same time. The gazebo stands, cold and empty, only a shell without the two musicians who always make the gazebo their spot.

Imelda stands in the middle of the plaza, focusing on music instead of the throbbing pain that’s blossoming across her cheek. As obnoxious as the racket from the plaza always is, she’s fond of it. She loves the way she can stand in the plaza in the middle of the day, close her eyes, and pick out individual performances. Of course, the loudest performance is always coming from the gazebo, always some familiar tune or corny love ballad. Imelda doesn’t even want to think about all those times the corny ballads have been played just for her as a familiar gangly-limbed musician followed her through the crowded streets.

She remembers one time, though, when he hadn’t tried for an original piece. Hector—that loud, obnoxious trickster—had sung something classic, timeless, and maybe Imelda’s lips had twitched into a smile after she’d chased him off with her boot.

 _“Ay,”_ she sings, her voice echoing off the empty plaza, _“de mi llorona… Llorona de azul celeste.”_

A quiet gasp comes from somewhere to her right, so quiet that Imelda barely hears it. Imelda stops and whirls around, heart pounding, ready to face whoever may be there.

She hadn’t expect to see _him_ tonight, and he hadn’t expected to see _her_. If anyone else in the town was there, however, they would have seen this coming from a mile away.

A lonely, wandering musician and a lonely, wandering girl.

Really, it’s ridiculous how long it took for the two scenes to collide.

“Hector!” Imelda quickly wipes her eyes, trying to hide any evidence of crying. She thanks the sky for being cloudy and dim; with the faint glow of the moon emanating from behind her, Imelda knows her face is shadowed. “What are you doing here?”

Hector blinks, but he doesn’t say anything. His wanderings tend to bring him to the plaza, too, but he hadn’t expected to find the girl he’s been chasing after for months _singing_. He’s caught her singing only a handful of times before, and she’s always chased him away the second she realized he was there. Now, she stands in front of him, face hidden by shadows, unmoving as he gapes at the memory of her voice.

“Shut your mouth, you’ll catch flies,” Imelda snaps, and Hector can’t help but smile. There’s the girl he knows.

He gulps, clearing his throat. “That was one of the first songs I played for you,” he says, quiet voice carrying effortlessly across the empty plaza.

Hector can’t see Imelda’s expression, but from the way she crosses his arms he knows that her face is scowling. “It’s a good song,” she says defensively. “Not like I hadn’t heard it before you tried to ruin it for me.”

“Oh, but the way I play it _es lo mejor, si?_ ” Imelda _can_ see Hector’s expression, just barely, and the way he waggles his eyebrows makes her roll her eyes.

“Hardly,” she responds. As she speaks, she notices the guitar in his one hand and the bottle in his other. She looks at him closely, taking in his disheveled clothes (well, _more disheveled than usual_ clothes) and the slight sway to his stance.

“Are you… drunk?” she asks.

Hector hiccups, which just about answers her question. “No.”

Even though he can’t see Imelda’s face, Hector knows exactly what the disbelieving expression she’s shooting him looks like. “Okay, fine,” he concedes. _“Solo un poquiti-ti-ti-ti-ti-ti-ti-ti-ti-”_

Imelda rolls her eyes and sighs. “Alright, I get it.”

 _“-ti-ti-ti-tito!”_ Hector finishes, grinning.

Imelda’s face goes from disbelieving to unimpressed. “I doubt that."

Hector shrugs, lifting the bottle to his lips. “Well, I guess I’ll drink more to prove you’re right.”

Rolling her eyes too much only lessens its power, Imelda knows, but she can’t help but roll her eyes at the gangly-limbed musician yet again. He might not be as infuriating as the other men who’d tried to pursue her, but there’s something about him that drives Imelda crazy. No matter how hard she tries, she can never get him out of her head. Once he follows her through the streets, whatever song he choses is stuck in her head for the rest of the day. It’s endlessly annoying, but as she watches Hector swallow a mouthful of tequila, Imelda comes to a realization: Hector may be a pain, but he is good at taking her mind off of her problems.

“Hey,” Imelda calls. Hector immediately perks up, lowering the bottle and turning all of his attention to her.

 _“¿Que pasa?”_ Hector asks.

Imelda marches across the plaza with her hand outstretched and a plan in mind. “ _Dámelo_.”

Hector hesitates, looks down at his hands, and then holds out his guitar, confusion written across his face.

Again, Imelda rolls her eyes. “Not the guitar, _tonto_ , I meant the _alcohol_.”

“Oh?” Hector hands her the bottle with a grin. “Was booze the key to your heart this whole—whoa.”

Hector stares in awe as Imelda chugs the tequila without any hint of a wince or grimace. She lowers the bottle with a quiet, “ _Ah_ ,” before handing it back to Hector.

“You caught me on a night when I’d rather not be sober, that’s all,” Imelda says, wiping her mouth with the back of her wrist. “Besides, you’re not going to drink that whole thing yourself. You’d _die_.”

Hector can’t help but smile at Imelda’s weak excuses. “Tell yourself whatever you have to,” he says, “but this is still the longest conversation we’ve ever had.”

“And it’ll only become tolerable when I’m significantly drunker than I am now,” she snaps. “Come on, I’m not standing here all night.”

* * *

So, the gangly-limbed musician and dark-haired girl end up in the place where the musician spends the majority of his days: the gazebo in the middle of Mariachi Plaza, only instead of playing with his best friend, Hector’s sitting next to the girl of his dreams, slowly passing a shitty bottle of tequila back and forth. He’s been given strict instructions _not_ to play, actually, which is a bummer, but if it means he gets to spend more time with Imelda, he’ll take it. If he had to give up music forever just to be with her, he’d take it.

Still, there had been a brief argument when Imelda had brought it up.

“You play that thing and you’re dead to me,” Imelda had said when they sat down.

“Aw, _¿porque?_ ” Hector had whined.

“I don’t need the headache,” Imelda had said. “That thing sounds like nails on a chalkboard.”

“Don’t be mean to _mi mujer_ ,” Hector had said defensively, holding his guitar closer.

“Your _what?_ ”

 _“Mi mujer,”_ Hector had responded. _“Mi cariña, mi amada, mi sirenita_ . _”_

“Stop.” Imelda shook her head, holding her hands over her ears. “Just stop—stop giving it nicknames like it’s _alive_.”

Since then, the two have sat in silence, only speaking to ask the other to pass the bottle. Hector feels his palms sweating. This is the longest interaction with Imelda he’s ever had—he _can’t_ mess it up. He wants to say something to her, but he fears that anything he says will only provoke her ire.

Imelda is the one to finally break the silence.

“You know,” she says, patting the railing of the gazebo with a thoughtful look on her face. “This _is_ a good stage.”

Hector perks up immediately. She’s talking about _music_. “Ernesto thought so, too,” he says with a grin.

Imelda nods. “Is that why he steals it every day?”

Hector’s grin falls. “What?”

“There are dozens of musicians in Santa Cecilia,” Imelda says. “Why are you two the only ones who get to play in the gazebo?”

“W-well,” Hector stammers, torn. On one hand, he agrees with Imelda—he’d brought up the same complaint the first time Ernesto chased a couple mariachis away—but on the other hand, Hector’s first reaction is to defend his friend. “I mean, really, are any of the other musicians as good of a performer as Ernesto?”

Imelda meets his eyes for the first time since sitting down in the gazebo. Even though her expression is flat and unimpressed, her eyes send a shiver down Hector’s spine. “Ernesto is only the best performer because he plays _your_ music.”

Imelda realizes her mistake when Hector’s eyes widen and his mouth drops open. If it weren’t so dark, she’d probably see his face turn bright red. “You think so?” he asks, voice so, so soft, and _oh_ , Imelda thinks to herself, _you messed up big time, girl_.

“I’m not drunk enough for this,” Imelda says, reaching for the bottle.

“Hey, do you think maybe you should— _diós mio_ ,” Hector breathes as Imelda chugs the tequila again. It’s an incredible sight. “Uh, maybe you should slow down.”

“I have to catch up to you,” Imelda says, lowering the bottle. “You were already drunk when I started.”

“Barely!” Hector protests. “Really, Imelda, you’re going to hurt yourself.”

“I don’t even feel anything yet!” Imelda says, then, “Oh, wait, no, that was a lie.”

Hector can’t help but snort. “Did it just hit you?”

“All at once, yeah,” Imelda says, blinking. Her head is spinning, and everything feels wavey and warm. She knows why she rarely gets drunk, but that doesn’t change the fact that every time she _does_ drink, she finds herself asking herself, _why don’t I do this more often?_ She can’t help but giggle a little as she leans her head back against the railing. “Ah, how I’ve missed this.”

“You probably need water,” Hector says. “I don’t want you cursing my name tomorrow morning.”

“I curse your name _every_ morning, Hector,” Imelda says. “Every day I wake up and think, ‘ugh, I’m going to have to listen to that stupid musician following me around the streets all day.’”

“How romantic,” Hector croons, fluttering his eyes in her direction. “You’re the first thought on my mind every morning, too.”

Hector expects her to respond with another eyeroll, or a scowl and an angrily worded phrase, but instead she chuckles and—well, she _does_ roll her eyes, but the gesture is almost _fond_ . “ _Tonto_ ,” she says.

Hector feels his throat go dry, and he quickly stands up, brushing off his pants and clearing his throat. “R-right. You _definitely_ need water.”

“Ugh, whatever,” Imelda says, reaching again for the bottle.

“And I’m taking that!” Hector snatches the bottle away from her.

“What? Why?” Imelda asks, hands outstretched. “Just give it to me.”

“Can’t have you drinking the whole thing by yourself,” Hector says, carefully making his way down the stairs. He’s not too wobbly, but it doesn’t hurt to be careful.

“If I did that I’d _die_ ,” Imelda says.

“Exactly!” Hector gives her a smile as he walks away. “I’ll be right back!”

His home isn’t far from the plaza—which was part of why Ernesto chose it. Hector grabs two cups from the shack and hurries to the water pump as fast as he can without falling. At the pump, he takes a deep breath, leaning against a wall as he clutches his hand over his heart.

This girl is so captivating. He feels like it’s going to kill him.

Ernesto would say he’s being dramatic. Hell, even _Hector_ knows he’s being dramatic. Knowing doesn’t help him, though. This is the longest interaction he’s had with Imelda, and he’s torn between terror and awe. Every time she chooses to smile instead of threatening him with her shoe makes his heart swell, yet at the same time he wonders when his luck will run out.

“I guess booze really was the key to her heart,” he mumbles to himself as he sets down the tequila glass and heads for the pump.

He’s slower on the way back to the plaza, making sure he doesn’t trip over the cobbled streets and spill the water. He’s so focused on his feet that he almost doesn’t realize how close the plaza is until he hears the soft strum of a guitar from off in the distance.

Hector slows even more, slowly creeping the last few feet towards Mariachi Plaza. The gazebo has a perfect view of almost every street that opens into the plaza, including the street Hector approaches from, meaning he has no corner to hide behind. He soon realizes he doesn’t need one.

Imelda is curled into a ball, knees pressed against her chest, and one hand reaches out to pluck at Hector’s guitar. The guitar is exactly where he’d left it, lying flat on the ground, so Imelda must’ve shuffled over to where Hector was sitting while he was getting water.

Hector leans against the wall and watches Imelda run her fingers over the strings. She obviously doesn’t know what she’s doing, just plucking aimlessly, but she’s completely absorbed. She doesn’t even notice when Hector clears his throat.

“Hey, that’s no fair,” Hector calls. He grins when Imelda’s head snaps up, her face painted over with guilt. “If I’m not allowed to play my guitar, why can you?”

“I-I wasn’t!” Imelda says, scrambling away.

“Yeah, you’re right.” Hector pushes off the wall and makes his way towards her, “I’m not sure if you could really call that _playing_.”

“ _Pendejo_ ,” Imelda yells.

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Hector hands her a glass and sits down, making sure he doesn’t drop the other glass or the tequila. “Drink up.”

Imelda squints at the water suspiciously, but she does raise the cup to her lips. Hector watches as she slowly drains the glass. Her face isn’t hidden by shadows, giving Hector his first good look at her expression all night. He can’t help but smile as she gulps down the last of the water. _Que hermosa._

Her eyes flutter open, and she catches Hector’s eye and scowls. “What’s that face for?”

Hector shrugs. “ _Nada_ ,” he says.

Imelda hums distrustfully, but she doesn’t comment. Her eyes flick down to the tequila, and Hector can’t help but laugh.

“Why are you so desperate to get drunk?” he asks, passing the bottle back to her.

“None of your business,” Imelda snaps, grabbing the bottle and turning away. Again, Hector’s eyes drink in the planes of her face, memorizing the lines and shadows, the shape of her brows and the curve of her lips, the delicate brush of eyelashes against her cheek, the… the…

Hector’s eyes narrow. There’s a dark spot on her face that he hadn’t noticed before, only now that he looks, he can see that it covers her whole cheek.

Without thinking, he reaches out. _“¿Qué es eso?_ ” Hector asks, fingertips gently brushing the edge of the mark, by her jaw.

Imelda’s eyes snap open. She jolts away as if shocked, expression twisting into pure fury. “None of your business!” she screeches. “Get away from me!”

“Is that a bruise? Where did you get that?” A hard edge creeps into Hector’s voice.

“What did I _just say?_ ” Imelda stands up. She immediately sways to the side, almost toppling over until Hector hurriedly hoists her up. “Get _off_ me!”

“Who did this to you?” Hector doesn’t let go. He reaches for her face, only to have Imelda bat his hand away and step back, out of his grasp. “Imelda, who—”

“Oh, come on, like you haven’t heard the rumors!” Imelda snaps. “Everyone knows why I come out here some nights, why I have to drop my brothers off with the neighbors and stay away from my own home!”

Hector _has_ heard the rumors. He’s heard about the nights when Imelda’s father bellows loud enough for half the town to hear—sometimes he’s heard it himself. But he didn’t know… “I didn’t know he _hits_ you!”

“He doesn’t! Not usually!” Imelda turns her back to Hector, wrapping her arms around her body and hunching in on herself as much as she can. Hector can’t help but think she looks fragile, delicate, even though he knows that couldn’t be farther from the truth.

“Not _usually?_ ” Hector demands, stepping towards her

“It’s my fault, okay?” Imelda says, voice breaking.

Hector freezes. He’s always known that there was more to Imelda than the icy shell she surrounded herself with, but to see her emotions laid bare like this feels like a crime. He feels like he should look away, but he can’t. He can’t help but step forward, slowly, to stand beside her and watch as she bites her lip and takes a deep breath.

“It’s my fault,” Imelda says, lowering her hands to clutch at the railing. “I thought I could talk him down for once, but I should’ve known better. Every time I try, it turns out the same.”

“Imelda.” Hector risks placing a hand on her arm. He feels her tense, but she doesn’t move away. “Listen to me. It’s _not_ your fault.”

“And what do you know?” Imelda says, turning her head to look at him. “What do you even know about me, Hector? Why do you chase me down and serenade me every day? All I’ve ever done is yell and chase you away.”

Hector hesitates, lips parting in a silent gasp. He’s waxed poetic about that question to Ernesto for hours, but to lay himself bare at Imelda’s feet is daunting.

From the way she stares, Hector knows she isn’t going to let him off the hook. He gulps, pulling his hand away to rub nervously at the back of his head. “Oh, you know,” he says, glancing away with a laugh. “You take care of your brothers, you pick up odd jobs to bring money home, you’re sweet with children and the elderly, but you have no patience for anyone between those ages.”

“That’s all things I _do_ ,” Imelda says. “Hector, you don’t know anything about who I _am_.”

“I know you’re a girl with music in her heart,” Hector continues, drawing on all his courage to look her in the eye. “I know you love to sing, but you never let people hear you because you don’t want them to know you have a soft side. I know you care deeply for your brothers, and you would do anything to protect them. I know the reason all your past suitors gave up is because they wanted to control you, own you, and I know you’re too headstrong to ever let that happen. And I know…” Hector clenches his sweaty hands into fists, heart pounding as he takes the biggest risk of his life. “I know you don’t hate me as much as you pretend to.”

Hector watches as her eyes widen. His heart is pounding so hard he can feel it in his throat. He waits for Imelda to speak, waits for her to pass judgement, only the silence only stretches on longer and longer as Imelda stares, mouth hanging open.

Eventually, Hector can’t take it anymore. “You, uh, you should shut your mouth,” he says, giving her a weak smile. “You’re going to catch flies.”

Imelda’s eyes widen farther and her hand flies up to her mouth. She hesitates a moment more before she cracks, biting her lip to hide her smile as she punches Hector’s arm. “ _Tonto_ ,” she says.

Hector’s arm blossoms with pain (he chooses to believe that she hit him harder than intended) as his face lights up with a smile so wide it hurts his cheeks. “ _Idiota_.”

“ _Feo_.”

“ _Payaso_.”

“ _Hijo de puta_ ,” she fires back.

“Wow, going after my parentage? That’s a low blow, Imelda,” Hector jokes, but Imelda’s face immediately falls.

“Oh! I-I’m sorry, I didn’t–”

“Imelda, it’s fine,” Hector says, holding his hands up and smiling.

“No, no, I mean—” Imelda shakes her head. “I’ve just been standing here, complaining about my father, and you don’t even _have_ any family.”

“Oh.” Hector pauses, lowering his hands. “That’s—really, Imelda, it’s fine. Ernesto is all the family I need—and besides, it’s almost better being orphaned.”

Imelda squints at him, confused. “What do you mean?”

Hector shrugs and leans against the railing. “Your father hurts you, Ernesto’s parents left him—at least I can pretend my parents were good people.”

He says it with a smile. He’s never been one to wallow in his own self-pity, especially not about this—if he hadn’t been orphaned, he might not have ever met Ernesto. He might not have ended up in Santa Cecilia. He might not have met Imelda.

So he’s surprised when Imelda takes his hand and squeezes.

Hector doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe. He looks at her hand, small and calloused in his own grip, and has to remind himself to inhale, exhale, and repeat.

“H-how much did you have to drink?” he asks.

“A lot,” Imelda says. “Not enough.”

“Yeah, me too,” he says. “Let’s get back to drinking.”

“That’s a good idea,” Imelda says, nodding. She pulls her hand away and wobbles back towards the bottle, scooping it up and bringing it to her lips in one motion.

Hector takes a deep breath and joins her.

* * *

For reasons Hector forgets by the time they’ve left the plaza, the two of them decide to go visit the cemetery.

Getting there is rough.

“Go left,” Hector says to the girl leaning heavily against him. She giggles and turns right.

“I said left!” Hector uses the arm around her waist to pull Imelda in the correct direction.

“Tha’s where I was goin’!” Imelda protests, stumbling over her feet.

“You’re seein’ everythin’ backwards.”

“I am not!”

“ _Estás loco.”_

“Oh, _I’m_ crazy?” Imelda giggles, swaying against Hector’s shoulder. “ _You’re_ th’ one who talks t’ his guitar!”

“She’s a cranky old lady, if I don’t talk t’ her she won’t listen to me!”

“Mhm.” Imelda sighs. Her breath tickles Hector’s neck, making his hair stand on end. “‘S that th’ stuff you’d call me if I married you?”

“Oh, Imelda, _mi amor_ , you’d have t’ deal with _so much worse_.”

Hector can’t keep the smile off his face. Being so close to Imelda is making him dizzy. His chest hurts with longing. He wants to… God, he doesn’t even know what he wants. Pull her closer? Hug her? Kiss her? He doesn’t do any of those things—partly because he doesn’t want to ruin the moment, and partly because he doesn’t want her to do something she’d regret when sober. Instead, he makes sure she doesn’t fall as they approach the cemetery.

Imelda collapses beside a random grave, leaning on the flat, white stone as she takes a deep breath. “Oh, ev’rythin’s a-spinnin’.”

“Same,” Hector groans, sitting on the other side of the grave.

“‘S like… ‘s like it’s _almost_ not fun anymore,” Imelda says.

“ _¿Que?_ ”

“‘S almost…” Imelda waves her hand in the air, tracing shapes Hector can’t see. “‘S almost bad.”

“I dunno what you’re talkin’ about,” 

“Alcohol!” Imelda cries. “I love it. I love tequila.”

It’s Hector’s turn to giggle, now. He leans back against the tombstone, closing his eyes against the way the world spins around him. “You’re not makin’ any _sense_ , _mi amor_.”

“I’m makin’ _perfect_ sense!” Imelda cries. She flops back onto the dirt, stretching her arms above her. “Ev’rythin’s good, but soon: bad.”

“If you say so,” Hector replies. He leans over the flat stone of the grave to try and see Imelda’s face, but she’s too far away.

“Y’know—y’know what I mean?” Imelda asks. “When drinkin’ is fun, so y’keep doin’ it, but then ‘s not fun anymore?”

“ _Oh_.” Hector laughs, resting his head against the grave. “Yes, Imelda, I know what you mean.”

“Good,” Imelda says, arms falling down beside her. “‘S good. Th’ sky is red, Hector.”

Hector glances up. The moon is full, the sky full of stars, and the night is dark. “Imelda, th’ sky is black.”

“Shut _up_ ,” Imelda says. “‘S red, _tonto. Estupido_.”

“ _You’re_ the _estupido_ ,” Hector retorts. “You’re not usin’ your brain, Imelda.”

“Then how else would I be _thinkin’_ , Hector? _Tonto_.”

“Your _feet_.” Hector looks down at his own feet, the dirty shoes that are just a bit too small for him. He wiggles his toes, giggles again. “You’re thinking with your feet.”

“An’, an’ you say _I’m_ th’ one who’s not makin’ any _sense_ .” Imelda sits up with a grunt. Her hair is falling across her shoulders, spilling out of the normally tight braids. “I put _shoes_ on my feet.”

“Yeah, t’ protect them,” Hector says. “You wear shoes because that’s where y’think from.”

“ _¡Tonto!”_ Imelda cries. She leans over the grave, plastering her body across the stone and resting her head in her arms. “Then… then y’gotta put your shoes on your head.”

“I _what_?”

“Put your shoes on your head!” Imelda bursts into giggles, lowering herself even further across the grave. Hector leans forward, placing his head in his hands. He watches Imelda’s eyes flutter shut and her breathing slow. He thinks she’s asleep, but then she sighs and shifts slightly, grunting, and he realizes that she’s still holding on to consciousness.

“Do th’ thin’, Hector,” Imelda mumbles, eyes still shut.

“What thing?” Hector asks.

“Th’... th’ _thing_.” Imelda gestures vaguely in his direction. “Th’... ba-da-da.”

“D’you want more tequila?” Hector guesses, reaching for the bottle.

“ _No_ ,” Imelda says with emphasis. “I’d _die_.”

“Probably,” Hector agrees. “Water?”

“Tha’s so far _away,_ Hector,” Imelda whines.

“D’you want me to leave?”

“ _No!_ ”

Before Hector can react, Imelda’s hand wraps around his wrist in an iron grip. Her face looks panicked. Hector gulps.

“Don’t leave,” she says, eyes wide and earnest.

“Okay,” Hector replies, heart pounding. “Okay.”

Imelda nods, but she doesn’t let go of his hand. “I want’cha t’... t’ do th’ thin’.”

“Imelda, I don’t—”

“Music!” Imelda says, sitting up. “Music, tha’s th’ word I was lookin’ for.”

“You want me t’ _play?_ ” Hector asks incredulously.

Imelda nods. “Mhm.”

“But you said I couldn’t!”

Imelda shrugs. “Changed my mind.”

“O-okay.” Hector looks down at where Imelda’s skin meets his own. “‘M gonna need my hand back, Imelda.”

“Hmm.” Imelda looks down at his hand before releasing her grip. “‘S a nice hand.”

Hector chokes on his own spit.

After nearly hacking up a lung, he grabs his guitar and strums a random chord. His fingers stumble, slowed down by the alcohol, sleep deprivation, and flustered nerves, but after a few seconds he finds a rhythm. He plays a song he’d written a couple years ago, something slow and sappy. At the time, he’d just been throwing words together in hopes of creating a catchy tune, but now the lyrics speak to this moment, to the sight of Imelda gazing at him with tired, content eyes.

“A feeling so close you could reach out and touch it,” he sings, voice soft and heart pounding.

Imelda’s eyes drift shut, and the corners of her mouth curl into a small smile.

“I never knew I could want something so much, but it’s true.”

Hector continues to play, strumming chords and gazing at Imelda with longing in his eyes. Imelda doesn’t comment on the song choice, or on the way Hector stares. After a few moments, Hector’s fingers slow. He trails off, leaving the two in silence.

Imelda cracks one eye open. “Why’d y’ stop?”

Hector bites his lip, hesitating. A question burns on the back of his tongue, but it takes all his courage to push it past his lips.“Why… why don’t you let me play f’r you durin’ the day?”

Imelda’s calm face hardens—not into anger, but into guilt and embarrassment. “…Ah.”

Hector waits patiently for an answer. Imelda sits up, slowly, rubbing her eyes and throwing her hair over her shoulder. Her eyes dart around the cemetery, as if searching for a way to avoid answering the question, but there’s nothing to save her. It’s just the two of them, a guitar, and a bottle of tequila. Imelda clenches her jaw.

“I… I have t’ _do_ things!” Imelda exclaims, hands flailing. Hector blinks, surprised by the sudden burst of energy. “I have t’… I have t’ shop an’, an’, an’ take care of Oscar an’ Felpipe an’ make sure my father doesn’t _hurt_ them. I can’t—I can’t sing with you ‘cuz I know I’ll… I’ll… you’re cute, y’know? You’re cute.”

Hector feels his face heat up, palms sweat, heart pound. _Dios mio_ , he’s in in too deep. “O-oh.”

“You were right, y’know,” Imelda says. “About what’chu said earlier. I _don’t_ hate you as much as I pretend to.”

Hector is on the verge of passing out.

“Sing with me,” Hector says, eyes wide and face flushed. “Sing with me, _mi amor_ , _porfa_. It doesn’t have t’ be romantic, jus’ two people who love music.”

Imelda looks at his blurry, swaying face, the ernest expression, and the last of her resolve crumbles to dust. “You promise?”

“I promise,” Hector says. “ _You_ jus’ gotta promise t’ not fall in love with _me_.”

Some part of Imelda—muscle memory, perhaps—still puts on a show of snorting and rolling her eyes, but Imelda knows it’s all a farce. It’s too late for her to make that kind of promise. “Not a problem,” she lies through her teeth. “What song?”

Hector shakes his head, shifting his guitar in his grasp. “Your favorite song in th’ whole world. Just start singin’, I’ll figure out th’ chords as y’ go.”

 _He really is a genius songwriter, isn’t he?_ Imelda thinks to herself.

Her favorite song in the world? Imelda doesn’t have one. She used to, back before Hector started writing songs for her, but now she can’t chose. She’s never admitted it, not even to herself, but every one of Hector’s original songs are her favorites. On nights when her father’s wrath sends her scrambling for cover, she remembers Hector’s songs as a way to remind herself that this pain isn’t all there is to her life. She has her brothers, she has her friends, and she has Hector, in a way. One thing she can always count on is Hector’s daily presence, irritating and reassuring all at once.

Imelda chooses the song that used to be her favorite, the only song she truly knows by heart.

“ _Ay, de mi llorona_ ,” Imelda sings, and Hector snorts.

“I should’ve guessed.”

“‘S a good song,” Imelda snaps.

“Never said ‘t wasn’t,” Hector says, but Imelda is singing again.

“ _Llorona de azul celeste_ ,” she croons, closing her eyes and swaying to the music.

Hector strums along. He doesn’t know this song as well as Imelda does, so he keeps it simple, but paired with Imelda’s voice, he doesn’t need to do anything flashy. This is the first time Imelda’s let him hear her voice; usually, Hector has to wait for Imelda to slip up and drop her guard just to hear her hum part of a melody. Now, she meets his eyes as she sings, smiling, and Hector feels a shiver deep in his bones.

“ _Y aunque la vida me cueste llorona,_ ” she sings, swaying slightly. “ _No dejaré de quererte_.”

She sings, and he plays, and both begin to fall in love.

* * *

From there, Hector’s memory becomes hazy.

He doesn’t remember when he stopped playing, or when she stopped singing. He doesn’t remember leaving the cemetery, and he doesn’t remember Imelda deciding to spend the night in Hector’s tiny shack. He doesn’t remember getting there.

He _does_ remember staring down at the girl lying in his bed, watching her fall asleep like some kind of creep. He remembers her eyes cracking open, and he remembers her mumbling, “Y’ gonna stand there all night?”

He remembers being too drunk to process the action of lying beside her as a _very, very bad idea_.

He remembers Imelda Imelda mumbling something incomprehensible, and him responding with a quiet, “ _Si, mi amor_.”

He wakes slowly, becoming aware of his surroundings one piece of information at a time. The musty smell, then the hard mattress, then the light streaming through the window, then the soft warmth pressed against his side, then agony in his head and the roiling in his stomach—then, finally, the familiar voice that says, “ _Ay, dios mío_.”

“‘Nesto?” Hector asks, blearily blinking against the sunlight. The dark outline of his friend’s giant body looms over him. “ _¿Que…?_ ”

“Oh, Hector,” Ernesto says, and the dark outline shakes its head. “Don’t tell me you actually…”

“Actually what?” Hector pushes himself into a sitting position—or, rather, he _tries_ to. Something resting across his chest holds him down, and Hector slowly turns his head to the side.

His heart stops.

“ _Dios mío_ ,” he breathes.

Resting on his chest is the sleeping face of Imelda Rivera, the literal girl of Hector’s dreams. Her face is squished into his chest, her hair is a disaster, and there’s a pool of drool seeping into his shirt. It’s the most beautiful sight Hector’s ever seen.

It is also the single most horrifying thing he’s seen in his entire life.

Hector looks back to his friend, eyes wide with panic. “D-do you think we…”

“Why are you asking me?” Ernesto asks, backing away with his hands raised. “I just walked in the door!”

“What do I do?” Hector hisses.

“How should I know?”

“You do this kind of thing all the time!”

“Not with girls like _her!_ ”

“What’s that supposed to–”

Hector is cut off by a quiet groan. He feels Imelda’s chest vibrate as she shifts, slowly blinking her eyes open. He doesn’t move, doesn’t even breathe, as her eyes drift up to his face.

“Hector…?” She says, brows furrowing in confusion. “Why…?” She freezes. Hector feels her body tense, and he sees her eyes widen in horror.

She jolts up, then winces, the action obviously not helping the massive hangover she’s undoubtedly suffering from. “H-Hector,” she stammers. “A-and… Ernesto?”

“ _Hola_ ,” Ernesto says. “I obviously came at a bad time, so I’m going to give you two some time alone to, uh… _discuss_.” He’s gone before Hector can beg his friend to stay.

Hector sits up slowly, staring determinedly at the wall. His throat is parched, his head throbbing, and his stomach feels like it’s two seconds away from emptying its contents all over the floor. Hector ignores his hangover and glances to Imelda.

Imelda seems similarly nauseous, although Hector isn’t sure if that’s from the alcohol or fear. “Did… did we…”

“From what I remember, we were… very drunk,” Hector says carefully.

Imelda blanches. “Oh no.”

“No, no, I didn’t mean—look, the buttons on your dress, they’re all perfectly buttoned.” He gestures to the back of the dress. The line of buttons follows the curve of her spine, and Hector has to tear his eyes away.

“What’s your point?” Imelda asks, reaching behind her to run her hands down the buttons.

“There’s no way I managed to unbutton each button, and then… uh, button them all back up perfectly.” He tries for a reassuring smile. “I can barely do that _sober_.”

Imelda’s brow furrows. “You’ve unbuttoned a lot of dresses in your life?”

“H-hardly!” Hector stammers. “Which just proves my point!”

“But what if _I_ did it—”

“Trust me Imelda,” Hector says, suddenly sure of it. Last night they drank, sang, and fell asleep. Nothing more. “You were incapable of doing anything last night.”

“Oh.” Imelda still seems unsure. She glances at Hector, her whole body tense. “A-are you sure you didn’t, uh…”

Hector’s eyes widen. “Imelda, I would _never_ .” Just the thought makes him feel sick to his stomach—or, well, even _more_ sick to his stomach. “I swear.”

Imelda nods slowly, worrying her teeth between her lips. “Okay,” she says. “Okay. I, uh, I should get going. My brothers…”

Hector nods. “O-of course.”

She stands, leaning heavily on the wall as she does so. Once she’s up, she slowly shuffles towards the door. Hector expects her to leave right away—he’s _resigned_ to it—but she hesitates before turning back to him.

“I… I had fun,” she admits in a whisper.

Hector feels his heart swell in his chest. “Me too,” he says.

Imelda smiles at him, her lips stretching into the soft skin of her cheek. In the bright morning glare, her bruise stands out, dark and purple against her brown skin.

“Will you be okay?” Hector asks. “I mean, your father—”

“I can handle myself,” Imelda snaps, then immediately softens. “I promise, Hector. I’ll be fine.”

Hector wants to protest, beg her to stay—she doesn’t deserve the lot she’s been given, she shouldn’t have to run away some nights to keep herself safe—but he knows she wouldn’t accept his concern. He knows she can withstand anything, even the cruelty of her father, but he wishes she didn’t have to.

“Okay,” he says. “If you ever need anything—”

“I’ll provide the tequila, next time,” she says with a wink. “ _Adiós_ , Hector.”

He beams up at her, at a sight more beautiful than the sun. “ _Adiós, mi amor_.”

He grins at the door for another few minutes after she leaves, just running through the night’s events in his mind. It almost doesn’t seem real. He’s practically shaking with giddy energy, so he does what he always does when he’s blindingly, uncontrollably happy—he grabs his guitar and plays something new.

The chords come to him almost immediately, along with a fun guitar lick and a _grito_ of joy. The _grito_ makes his head hurt, but he keeps playing, words spoken the night before leaping into his head.

Suddenly, he knows what he needs to do.

“Imelda!” he cries, jumping to his feet and rushing out the door. “Imelda!”

The neighbors stare as he races down the street, through the roads he knows will take him to Imelda’s home. He hears them whisper, he feels their stares, and he knows there will be gossip before the end of the day, but he can’t bring himself to care. He sprints past Ernesto, past street vendors and mariachis preparing for the day. It doesn’t take him long to spot Imelda—she’s walking through the street with her head held high, parting the crowd with pride even though she looks like a disaster.

“Imelda!” Hector calls, nearly tripping over his own feet.

Imelda turns around immediately, and he reconsiders his initial thought—her hair is a tangled mess and her clothes dishevelled, but no part of her is a disaster. “Hector?”

“Imelda!” Hector nearly crashes into her, screeching to a halt with a wave of nausea. He groans, doubling over and clutching his stomach.

“Hector, what are you doing?” Imelda asks. “ _¿Qué te pasa?_ ”

“ _Dame… dame un segundo_ ,” he wheezes.

He expects her to roll her eyes and turn away, but she waits as he catches his breath and lets his stomach settle. Taking a deep breath, he straightens himself out and looks her in the eye.

“Three days,” he says.

Imelda’s brow furrows in confusion. “What?”

“Three days,” he repeats. “Three days without following you around Santa Cecilia, and then—then I want you to come to Mariachi Plaza and watch me perform.”

“You mean you and Ernesto,” Imelda corrects.

“No.” Hector shakes his head, then immediately regrets that decision. He clutches his head and continues. “No, Ernesto can take a break for one song. I… I have something I want to show you, but I need time to get it ready.”

“You’ve already written me a dozen sappy love songs, Hector,” Imelda reminds him.

“This one’s different, I swear,” Hector says. “Just… please. Three days without me in return for two, maybe three minutes of your time.”

Imelda considers the man in front of her, taking in the bird’s nest hair, the loose, dishevelled clothes, the bags under his eyes, the spot of drool on his chest. She knows what the two of them look like—she can hear people gasp as they notice the two of them, standing in the middle of the street with their wrinkled clothes and messy hair—but she doesn’t care. She doesn’t care if their assumptions are wrong, and to her surprise, she realizes that she probably wouldn’t care all that much if their assumptions were _right_.

“Okay, Hector,” she says, offering him a small smirk. “You better blow me away with this new song.”

Hector’s grin is blinding. “I’ll do my best.”

Satisfied, Imelda turns to leave. She makes it about ten paces before she stops, realizing that something’s missing.

She turns around. Hector’s still standing where she left him, and she watches his face go from lovestruck to surprise to confusion as she approaches.

“Imelda, what—”

Imelda cuts him off with a quick peck on his cheek.

“Three days, _músico_ ,” she says, already walking away. “Make them count!”

She hears him let out a hearty _grito_ as she turns the corner, and she knows she couldn’t suppress her smile if she tried.

* * *

Rumors spread fast in small towns. Hector knows this, and yet he’s still surprised by the crowd that packs itself into Mariachi Plaza on the day Imelda promised to meet him. By late afternoon, almost the entire town is present, and Imelda has yet to show.

“Come on, Hector,” Ernesto says, buzzing with energy. The huge crowd has Ernesto playing better than ever, but Hector can’t get into it. Has she passed by as promised, only to be swallowed up in the crowd? Or has she chosen not to come after all? Two days ago, they locked eyes as they passed in the streets, but that’s the last time Hector’s seen her. Did something happen at home?

“ _Chamaco_ ,” Ernesto snaps— _literally_ snaps, his fingers in front of Hector’s face. “Come on, enough moping. You _have_ to play your new song!”

“Not until she gets here,” Hector insists. Ernesto’s been the first to hear Hector’s new song—not the whole thing, just bits and pieces as Hector worked on the piece. Still, Ernesto knows it’s going to be a hit.

“The whole town is here, Hector!” Ernesto says. “Who cares about one girl?”

Hector glares at Ernesto. “Just sing something else, Ernesto.”

Ernesto glares right back, but he quickly strums a chord and turns back to the crowd, face sliding into an easy grin.

As Ernesto plays a fancy guitar intro (one that Hector had spent hours teaching him), Hector sighs and scans the audience. He strums along absentmindedly, running more on muscle memory than anything else. He knows the day isn’t over yet, but the sun’s almost about to set—

 _There_.

His heart rate spikes when he sees her. At the edge of the plaza, accompanied by her two younger brothers, Imelda gazes in overwhelmed wonder at the crowd that stands in her way, How could Hector have thought he’d somehow missed her? She stands out in a crowd without even trying.

He should wait for Ernesto to finish the song, but Hector feels like he’ll have a heart attack. Instead, he grabs the neck of Ernesto’s guitar and pulls his friend away from the center of the stage. Ernesto yelps in surprise, opening his mouth to yell some sort of angry protest, but he falls silent when he sees the look on Hector’s face. After so many years, he can read Hector’s face like an open book, and he knows what that means.

Smirking, Ernesto steps back and lets his friend take the stage. 

The plaza is silent—even the other musicians don’t make a sound. This is what everyone came for, to see the drama unfold. Part of Hector is annoyed—he wrote this song for Imelda, not for all these people—but when he catches Imelda’s eye, he decides it doesn’t matter. Even if the whole world hears his song, at least Imelda will know that each word was meant for her.

Hector takes a deep breath and lets out the loudest _grito_ of his life.

* * *

Imelda hadn’t been expecting this.

She was expecting sappy love songs, romantic ballads with a gentle guitar. That’s what she’s used to receiving, after all. Hector liked to spend his days crooning in her direction as he followed her through the town.

This song is nothing like those songs.

This song is fun, upbeat, and catchy—Imelda finds herself tapping her foot along with the beat as she watches Hector perform. Oscar and Felipe are dancing, linking arms and spinning around with a joy Imelda hasn’t seen in their faces in months. The audience is clapping along after only a few measures. The lyrics stop, and Ernesto pulls some girl up onto the stage and twirls her around. The audience cheers as Ernesto lowers the girl into a low dip, but Imelda isn’t paying them any attention.

Neither is Hector. He glances at his friend for one brief moment, and then he’s back to staring directly at Imelda, warm eyes cutting through the crowd. He hasn’t stopped grinning, not since he began playing. His gold tooth flashes in the setting sun, and Imelda can’t help but grin back.

“The loco that you make me, it is just un poco crazy,” Hector sings, breaking eye contact to do a quick lap around the gazebo, grinning absently at the rest of the audience. “The sense that you’re not making, the liberties you’re taking.”

He returns back to his starting point, meets Imelda’s eye, and _winks_.

(“Oooh, Imelda, your face is so red!” Oscar teases, and Imelda regrets bringing her brothers along.)

“Leaves my cabeza shaking,” Hector continues, completely unruffled, and oh, Imelda’s going to get revenge for that one. “You are just un poco loco!”

He jumps into a chorus of gritos, the audience hollers. Imelda can’t help but join in.

“ _¡Eso!_ ” she cheers, and she sees the way his grin widens even more.

This is why she doesn’t hate him as much as she pretends to—no, this is why she _likes_ him.

Her life isn’t easy—she doesn’t like to complain, but she knows it’s true. She’s cared for her brothers since the day they were born, and it’s always been her job to make sure her family is running as smoothly as possible. Week by week, day by day, they just barely scrape by, and sometimes, the weight of it is suffocating.

Sometimes, her life is too serious.

And Hector? He’s anything but.

She’d been worried, before, that his relentless cheer meant he hadn’t grown up, or that he was incapable of taking anything seriously, but their night spent together had shown her better. He was mature, under that goofy grin—or, he could be, when needed. He could be quiet. He could be serious.

But when she needed something silly, something lighthearted and fun to balance out how heavy her life could be, well. Silly was what Hector did best.

“Un poquititititititititititititito loco!”

The plaza is in chaos. Everyone is cheering, even the other mariachis, but Hector barely hears them. There’s a weight on his shoulder, a hand—Ernesto’s hand—but Hector barely feels it. All he hears, all he feels, is the pounding in his chest.

All he sees is her.

She’s squeezing her way through the crowd, weaving between people with a determined look on her face. Every step she takes is an extra heartbeat per minute in Hector’s chest. If she gets any closer, he feels like he’s going to burst—but at the same time, she’s not close enough.

“Just imagine, Hector!” Ernesto is saying, voice barely audible over the sound of the crowd. “Imagine if you played that song in a plaza ten times this size! Imagine if–”

Hector doesn’t hear the rest. He shoves his guitar into his friend’s arms and leaps off the gazebo. People clap him on the shoulder as he passes, but he pays them no mind.

“Imelda!” Hector calls. To him, it sounds like his voice is swallowed up by the crowd, but her head snaps up and her eyes meet his. His cheeks hurt from grinning.

There’s a _grito_ , and then Ernesto is playing again. The crowd cheers for him, and Hector keeps pushing his way though. He has to see her. He has to—

Then she’s standing right in front of him, face flushed and clothes rumpled and so beautiful he can’t breathe.

“Hector,” she says, face flushed in a way that reminds Hector of sitting in the cemetery, leaning against a grave and swaying to the rhythm of a familiar song.

“Imelda.” Hector is suddenly very, very aware of every pore in his body, every stray bit of hair and every thread of worn cotton. He feels like an insect under a microscope under Imelda’s wide-eyed gaze, and he feels his palms start to sweat.

“So, what did you think?” His voice breaks, and he clears his throat. Wipes his palms on his pants.

“Not what I expected,” Imelda says, eyes still roaming his face. He wishes he could tell what she was thinking.

“Oh?” He twists the edge of his shirt in his hands and tries for a grin. “What were you expecting?”

“Not that,” Imelda replies. She cocks her head, smirking. “Did I really tell you to put your shoes on your head?”

Hector can’t help but laugh. “Imelda, you told me a _lot_ of things that night.”

“So I did.” Imelda bites her lip, and Hector squeezes his so hard his knuckles turn white. “Are you busy tonight?”

Hector spares a glance back towards the gazebo, where Ernesto is belting out a romantic chorus. As he watches, his friend sends a wink to some girl at the edge of their audience, and Hector grins as he turns back to Imelda.

“Well, it looks like Ernesto is going to abandon me yet again, so no.” He notices the way the corner of her mouth twitches, and his heart soars. “You know, I think there’s still some tequila left over.”

Imelda pauses, considering, but then she shakes her head. “No,” she says. “No, we don’t need it. Just meet me in the plaza after Ernesto’s gone off.”

“Okay.” Hector couldn’t wipe the grin off his face even if he wanted to. “Okay.”

Imelda nods, still biting her lip, still considering something. Hector waits, wondering if there’s something he’s supposed to say, still wondering what she’s thinking. She breaks eye contact to scan the audience around them, brows furrowed like she’s looking for something.

“But, uh, about the song,” Hector blurts, suddenly unable to hold his tongue. “Did you like it? No, don’t answer that, it doesn’t really matter—but, I mean, it seems like you enjoyed it. I saw your brothers dancing, and you were nodding along to the beat, but I mean, sometimes a song is catchy but still bad. It wasn’t _bad_ , though, was it? Like, at least it was _okay_ , right? You didn’t think it was too bad? I feel like there were too many instrumental breaks, but I’m not that strong of a singer, so I felt like I should stick to my strengths and include as much guitar as possible, and–”

He’s cut off, forcefully, by a mouth pressed firmly against his.

For all the time he’s spent imagining this, Hector thought he would’ve been better prepared.

His knees nearly give out, and a shriek of surprise nearly escapes his lips. For a moment, all he can do is stand perfectly still, eyes wide open, trying to tell himself that it’s all a dream.

Too soon, Imelda pulls away. Her face is flushed, but she still manages to smirk at the dumbstruck expression on Hector’s face. She runs her hands through his hair and smiles. “ _Tonto._ ”

Then Hector’s brain restarts, and he grabs her by the waist to pull her in for another kiss.

* * *

A brief list of scenes that the residents of Santa Cecilia are all too familiar with:

  * A gold-toothed, gangly-limbed musician skipping through town, plucking the chords to a romantic ballad on his guitar, following after a dark-haired girl with a glare that could kill a man.
  * Said dark-haired girl pulling off her shoe and pointing it menacingly towards the gangly-limbed musician (it’s worth noting that the girl can’t help but smile as she does this, and her glare is softened by her grin).
  * The gangly-limbed musician wandering the streets on nights when his broader, more dashing friend charms yet another young girl with his smooth voice and even smoother wink. Once, he wandered alone, but now he has company.
  * The dark-haired girl wandering the streets on nights when the neighbors can hear her father roaring through the thin walls of their house. On these nights, the gangly-limbed musician joins her, guitar in hand. The two find refuge under a familiar gazebo, and they find comfort in the songs they sing together.




End file.
